Monday, April 27, 2015

They mock the secessionist petitioners in Texas and other states, celebrate the infestation of even the smallest American heartland towns by African, Asian and Aztec cultures . . .

The above is a quote from Vox Day, one of the puppies who has caused the current shitstorm over the Hugo awards. For those of you who have not seen the wide-ranging media coverage this story is getting, a bunch of guys who don't like the trend in diversity in speculative fiction hijacked the nominations of the Hugos, throwing the future of the awards into doubt. Personally, I haven't paid much attention to the Hugos (or the Nebulas) in decades, but this is starting to hit close to home.

Because, Aztecaphobia is alive and well!

They're afraid of Aztecs coming to their hometowns. The Wild West stereotype of the blood-thirsty, half-breed never died. In Arizona, we still hear people talking about rumors of cannibalism and human sacrifice in the barrio. Schoolchildren speaking Spanish can trigger panic attacks.

Or as a little old lady from Phoenix once said, “We don't want downtown smelling like tacos!”

I've always considered the smell of tacos to be a sign of an advanced civilization.

The idea of an Aztec future must be their worst nightmare. I wonder if they've read any of my books or stories?

Dell Harris' cover painting (he called it “Scorpio”) for the self-published High Aztech ebook must put stains in their underwear.

If you want to get that edition, with that cover, you should buy it now, because Digital Parchment Services is working on a new Strange Particle Press edition of High Aztech, that – among other things – will have a new cover, that and incorporated imagery by a famous Communist artist!

Don't listen to the puppies, folks! Dream the dreams you lust after. Create the futures you want, be they African, Asian, Aztec,Texan or Arizonan. We need more visions, not less. Everybody, let your imaginations go wild!

Don't worry if it scares anybody. They may pull dirty tricks and try to shut you down – it's been the story of my life – but it's worth the fight. If they can't face Aztec cultural warriors, they are doomed.

Besides, one persons dystopia is another's utopia. One culture, one civilization, isn't enough. Imagine more. It's what sci-fi is supposed to be all about.

Gene Roddenberry was both a very human man and a cosmic visionary. Hardheaded, single-minded, a good friend and a bitter enemy, Roddenberry was a creative genius who pursued his dreams single-mindedly. A man who envisioned a future where humankind had outgrown war, he often fought unnecessary battles in his own life. Though his every project was a failure (Star Trek was cancelled after only three seasons), he created the single biggest phenomena in media history and gave the 20th century one of its most universal myths.

Roddenberry is the story of an almost larger-than-life man hose flaws were as outsized as his virtues. Even actors he made world-famous stars and millionaires spoke of him with mixed feelings. Final redemption came with the rebirth of Star Trek on the movie screen and launching of a new television hit, Star Trek: The Next Generation.

In Roddenberry: The Man Who Created Star Trek, journalist James Van Hise reveals Roddenberry's career as never before, in both its triumphs and failures. More importantly, it tells the story of the man behind the public figure.

You'll also find:

· Episode guides to all shows he wrote or produced.
· Roddenberry’s original Star Trek proposal sold to Paramount and CBS.
· Roddenberry’s original press release announcing the Star Trek: The Motion Picture.
· Production stills and other photographs, including a bonus gallery of images.
– Other exciting features.

You will also learn:
· Why Roddenberry became a cop and how it helped start his career as a television writer.
· The integrous stance that cost him a job with the big-budget adventure drama, Riverboat.
· What TV show he created and produced featuring four future Star Trek crew members – and who they were.
· Why he decided to write a science fiction show.
· Why Desilu Productions decided to back Star Trek when everyone else had turned it down.
· The original pre-production shape of the Enterprise hull.
· The name of the controversial movie he produced right after TOS ended.
· The incident that inspired him to give the mutants on Genesis II two navels.
· The strange reason Paramount fought against reviving the Star Trek series for years.
· Why Leonard Nimoy refused to appear in Star Trek: The Motion Picture and what made him change his mind.
· Why, after all his battles with Paramount, Roddenberry agreed to be the producer on Star Trek: The Next Generation.
· Why David Gerrold and D. C. Fontana both quit The Next Generation.
· Why Roddenberry trusted the Next Gen producers to be faithful to his vision after his death.
– And much, much more!

James Van Hise is a media journalist and the author of more than two-dozen books. He was the founder of the early and influential Star Trek ‘zine, Enterprise Incidents. He currently resides in Southern California.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Courtesy of the great William Rotsler site comes these sweet images of William Rotsler's playfulness: "Rotsler art from the collection of Ken and Aileen Forman. Presented with their permission. These pictures were originally submitted to Michael Bernstein's Rotsler.com (Archived on the Wayback Machine) The plates and cups of hotels hosting conventions were not safe from being drawn on."

The assassin strides through a residential neighborhood of mixed sentients. The condition of the houses varies – some are well maintained, while others appear to have rotted from the inside. They tend to be close together and tall, with railed porches and never less than six gables, front, back, or side.

The place isn’t exactly quiet; syrupy music emanates from a window – the music is sanctioned but the assassin could swear the resident inside is wearing headphones, and can easily be listening to something else entirely. Children laugh and a male can be easily heard from an open kitchen window – seems his toast is inappropriately puffed; there is much derision from the rest of the family.

The residents are mostly humanoid, their pigmentation usually dark brown or green. His goose yellow skin stands out slightly, but it’s still common enough in the neighborhood as to not be unusual.

Up ahead, kids play street hockey, while adolescents slack atop a retaining wall. A couple of winged inflator kids bounce across the street, oblivious to traffic. Their mother, with her greater lift, crosses in two efficient bounces and corrals them.

The assassin ignores the police vehicle passing by on patrol. The driver, a reptilian, holds the hot dog he’s eating in his tail.

He arrives at the target’s home, a multi-gabled abode with an unadorned yard and a transparent fence. Early in his career he’d attempted to climb a fence not unlike this one. His efforts attracted the notice of the neighborhood watch and he was nearly lynched.

He finds it ironic that a being whose recklessness had ignited so many fuses would reside in such a humble dwelling, in a typical neighborhood on an average world, smack in the middle of a less important grouping on the edge of the civilized worlds.

In times past, the target had purportedly lived underground, but in truth he’d lived publicly and large. Amours warranted top coverage in the ether. His personal intrigues were scrutinized. His out of control children had been scandals.

The assassin was of the opinion the target deserved to live in a monastery, where he’d pour gas on his conscience and light it up after every meal.

But he wasn’t here to judge. Merely to execute. He has no idea he has already been spotted – by his target no less, from the midway gable.

The target’s name is Edward Everett Laszlo, and for nearly a century he has been either a savior or a toxic influence, depending on who you talked to.

Ed has survived numerous assassin attempts, a dozen accidental overdoses, showers of firebombs, and more STDs than can be obtained during a thousand orgies. He has vacationed in warzones, slummed with degenerates, and, in the opinion of some, deliberately provoked the doubt and resistance that are at the heart of the wave of insurrections currently sweeping the empire.

Ed’s life has been long and fruitful, but right now he’s fracking tired. Exhausted. His mind is going, while his body feels like it’s already got up and went. He views the presence of this latest intrusion on his continued life with resignation. Maybe the time has come to get his ticket punched – let history have its say.

Even so, his favorite soaps start new episodes next week. They just might be enough to live for.

#

The assassin walks through the gate with the intention of starting with whoever answers. Suddenly the front door slams open with a thunderclap, and through the egress zooms a stooped, emasculated figure, so old he looks mummified. Laszlo. His arms are thrown open as if he was greeting an old friend, but unfortunately so is his bathrobe.

The assassin is not the only one to notice. A few yards down a little girl shrieks. She has blonde pigtails and blue skin. She holds her raggedly doll by the neck, shakes it in Edward’s general direction, and denounces him in terms so profane the assassin fears his ears will burn.

Edward is unperturbed. “Nita, how many times has your mother told you not to play in Timmy’s yard? Go home!”

Nita sticks out a forked tongue. She turns but just before leaving, wiggles her pinky at them.

Edward takes the assassin by the elbow with inappropriate familiarity and whispers conspiratorially, “The girl has problems. I’ve recommended counseling, but her parents seem to think it’s not necessary. But trust me, that girl’s destined to have her face showcased in the crime section. Who knows? She might be a future customer.

Can I offer you a cup of coffee? I know what you’re here for – a determinedly set jaw doesn’t work with your features, by the way – and I can’t stop you. But why the rush? I got nothing but time and it’s nearing rush hour. I’ve learned from bitter personal experience the species don’t mix well on crowded streetcars. Besides, you’ve got an aura blacker than a cosmic radio source. The empaths are going to look on you like a bonfire in reverse.”

Ed guides the reluctant gentleman through the front door. “So you might as well sit back and relax a spell, till traffic’s not so crowded. Furthermore, you might want to consider how much more pleasant it is chatting with someone than sitting around alone.”

The foyer extends several yards through the center of the house. Sitting and entertainment rooms lay on either side. Plastic plants abound. So do 3Ds – montages of Edward at various stages of his life: Ed receiving an honorary knighthood from a rebel queen; Ed on stage at a massive intra-species festival concert (attendance: half a million); Ed smoking a joint in a war zone (dead bodies lying everywhere); Ed surrounded by a bevy of naked babes, at least three of whom have tails (in a hot tub filled with a suspicious looking liquid).

Let’s talk in the kitchen, which is where the coffee is anyway,” says Ed. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to try anything. I couldn’t whup you in a rigged fight and the last mollusk I saw still moved faster than me. Nor, alas, am I permitted weaponry, be it activated verbally or sonically. The Home Owner’s Association won’t permit it. They actually send people around to inspect the premises for unauthorized weaponry, like we lived in the middle of a civilized cluster, can you believe it?”

Once in the kitchen, Ed, ever the dutiful host, pulls out a chair for his guest. “If you sit here, you’ll always have a good view of what I’m doing. I apologize for the silent ambience. I used to listen to music all the time, but I must have hit a fuddy-duddy stage, because all the modern stuff strikes me as derivative, in a bad way, and all the old stuff has become like time markers. Doesn’t matter. I always have these tunes bubbling up in my head anyway – hot lava in the brain! Know what I mean? Didn’t think so.

Hmm. Come to think of it, that’s tragic. In my experience, it doesn’t matter if you’re a leader or a grunt, a zealot or a drone, you never really discover yourself until you’ve immersed yourself body and soul in a first-rate piece of music. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve discovered myself in plenty of the most pleasurable second-rate ways imaginable, but music is still the best. For one thing, it helps you keep in touch with your emotions without ever having to actually to use them, which right there is something I think would appeal to you.

So sit back. Relax. Take a load off and return with me to those thrilling days of yesteryear.”

The assassin gazes out the window. It’s becoming dark. He sighs and switches on the outdoor lights.

The author's most fundamental subversion is in the language itself. It's true that slangy, dense, not-immediately-accessible language, packed with eyeball-kicking neologisms and non-English words, is a cyberpunk specialty. However, loan-words from a First World power like Japan don't begin to pack the seditious punch of the language of America's own disenfranchised, and Hogan doesn't stop with Spanglish.

I could go on and on, trying to capture Cortez on Jupiter in a word. Revolutionary? Gonzo? Well-written? Nahuatlfuturist? Anarchic? Recombocultural? Satirical? Cutting-edge? All are accurate (yes, even "cutting-edge," though the book was first published 25 years ago).

Futures-Past Editions publishes science fiction, fantasy, adventure, pulp, and more in five ebook formats. You'll find books carefully selected from the best contemporary authors and the great masters of the past.